


Dinner For Two

by orphan_account



Category: Good Omens (Radio), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:41:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26493547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Crowley pays a visit to Mr. Fell, and the two indulge in a slightly fancy supermarket dinner.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 7





	Dinner For Two

Aziraphale sighed as he closed up shop for the day. Or rather, pretended to.

He had a well worn routine by now, where he’d look up at the clock, notice it was past 5, put a hand up to his mouth and gasp as if he had lost track of time, then head to the doors and lock up. Or at least, check that the locks were in working order, if he hadn’t felt like opening the place that day. Or he checked that the barricade – usually a hefty sofa – was still in its proper place, blocking the entrance-way.

Not that a certain serpent paid attention to his opening and closing hours.

Just as Aziraphale was getting up to check, he felt the presence of somebody slipping right by him in his shadow, unnoticed – and then, the sofa barricade was gone from the door and back where it should have been. 

Crowley lay recumbent over the arms of the chair, snake-skin booted ankles crossed, like he was to be painted for a portrait. Like one of those French girls. He cast his gaze over to the angel, with a smirk.

“Trying to keep me out?”

“Certainly not.” The angel snipped back. “I just didn’t feel like…”

“…Taking customers today.” They both said in unison.

“Yes.” Aziraphale’s cheeks flushed.

The demon had to laugh. He knew the angel far too well by now.

“Don’t laugh at me! And it’s university intake season, Crowley. All those English Literature students will be… coming in and _asking to look around.”_

“Nah,” Crowley chuckled again. “My side have been putting all their textbooks online. Re-editing them each year, and keeping the prices astronomically high.”

“That is absolutely despicable, my dear.”

Crowley made a theatrical shrug. “Demon.” He then rearranged himself into a proper sitting position, and beckoned Aziraphale just that little bit closer, tugging down his sunglasses. “I have a sssssurprise for you.”

The angel was not particularly keen on surprises, but he gave a wan smile anyway. “How lovely. Can I see it now, or will I have to wait until we arrive somewhere else?”

The demon mulled it over in his mind – until he came to the sole conclusion that keeping it as a surprise would likely be the best thing to do in this situation. Leaving that question hanging, he got up and walked briskly over to the backroom area, where Aziraphale had a little kitchen for making hot drinks, kept impeccably clean by the angel simply wandering over every now and again and making himself busy. Never mind the fact that he could magically _will_ (or ‘miracle’) the tiles and counter-tops to be clean, and the kettle to be free of limescale.

“Cup of tea, AZ?” He called.

“Oh, um. Yes, if you’re making one too.”

Crowley had not, in fact, intended to make a cup of tea for himself, but he could hardly stop now he had two mugs out on the counter. One said BOOKS ARE MY BAG, and the other was plain white, but for a decal on the front – some advertising character for the tea company.

Normally, a good British cup of tea – if made with a teabag, for which Crowley took credit – takes about a minute to make and a minute to steep. Crowley didn’t even bother with the kettle, magically filling up the cups with boiling water and carefully plucking the teabag from its caddy. Earl Grey tea was a favourite of the angel’s, but he was also partial to Russian caravan, English breakfast, and peppermint, according to the row of tins on the shelf.

Crowley just grimaced and placed some instant coffee into his cup. No milk. He poured some oat milk into the angel’s tea, remembering exactly how Aziraphale liked it – just a dash of milk and one sugar.

Demons are usually masters of sneaking up on people, but in this case, Aziraphale’s soft rubber soles prevented him from making much of a sound as he padded behind Crowley, placing a hand on his shoulder.

The demon melted a little inside, though he would never betray that through his body language. Instead, he just cleared his throat and handed Aziraphale the steaming cup of tea, inviting him to go sit back down on the sofa.

His coffee, as it turned out, was terrible. Demons had taken credit for the invention of the tea bag, but they’d also taken credit for the invention of instant coffee granules. As well as a certain, unnamed American coffee house that continually avoided paying corporation tax. Still, Crowley relished as he sipped at the bitter liquid, a short silence passing between them both.

“Bad day?” He asked the angel eventually.

“No. Not at all.” The angel said, blowing at the surface of the tea. “Are we perhaps going out to dinner tonight? Is that the surprise?”

“Oh, that.” Crowley said. He was beginning to regret not telling Aziraphale now. He liked routine, he liked order, he liked the truth. Every now and again, the angel would tolerate some spontaneity – and surprises were included in under that umbrella definition. “You don’t feel like going out?”

“Well, it’s just that I have a Marks and Sparks dinner waiting in the flat above.”

“2 for £12?” Crowley asked.

“Certainly. This week, it’s seabass fillets, with garlic roasted new potatoes and vegetables, and a lovely Australian white wine… and dessert is profiteroles, filled with Chantilly cream.”

“And you usually eat them all by yourself on a Friday night?” Crowley asked.

“They don’t keep very well as leftovers,” the angel admitted.

Another silence passed between them.

“Lovely cup of tea.”

“You know what, I think I’m going to join you for dinner.” Crowley said, brashly. He half expected the angel to rush into a flurry of excuses, or apologies, but instead, the angel simply smiled.

“That would be lovely.”


End file.
